As she persisted in doing her best to drown about the entire little table on which the basin was resting, he starts wondering how often his wife was used to do menial tasks herself. At this rate, the water bucket which was standing on the floor by the table would be empty soon..

Let me do it.

Naturally she did not understand; obviously she would not understand; a decision was soon made even if it was a terrified woman who had the ewer pulled out of her trembling hand.

Let me do it.

This time, the basin was filled without problem allowing her need to proceed to nightly ablutions. A hand snatched a few towels albeit her following action made no sense. True, she was dipping the cloth into the water, but instead of washing herself, she was rubbing her dress.

Of the elegant night dress with its wide sleeves, it was best to say it had suffered badly. Some part had been ripped off, it was certainly wrinkled and ungainly stains including blood were now decorating it. Sinric would probably admonish his pupil that the word was inappropriate in this setting.

The dress is spoiled… I do not mean you are … Why … why can't you speak Norse? One would have thought. A princess… you would have a retinue of tutors to teach you Norse among other the foreign languages princesses and queens are supposed to master to welcome envoys from other realms…

Like her, he was trying to scrub the stains away; she did not seem to mind the help. She did not seem to acknowledge him at all too much occupied as she was to try and give back to her virginal dress its pristine status. As if a spotless dress would somehow restore her innocence from the knowledge about the physical aspect of Love-making. The repulsive aspect of it…

This dress is gone. 'Tis a pity; it was good silk you know. In Hedeby, we could sell it for a little fortune: easily three farms or a few cows… yes, a few cows including a bull… not sure about the bull. How much did your …

The man her misbegotten father had imposed on her, the man-beast who had terrorized her people was speaking in his incomprehensible language. She did not understand, did not want to understand and was in no mood to pretend. Yet for all his sins, he was helpful trying to help her remove the traces of this animalistic mating. At least, he knew he was a vile creature; his behaviour showed he was ashamed of it. Maybe men were monstrous creatures against their will; maybe it was a curse for Satan. A curse they were aware of yet unable to lift.

He was keeping on the slightly guttural muttering shaking his head at her damaged shift.

You better remove it. A seamstress will be able to repair it after a good soak … or maybe a dye and we can sell… you can… maybe you don't… You probably don't. I cannot imagine your father on a market place.

He smiled. He did not see Charles as able to collar customers like after a successful raid, the long ships crews were offering their wares to prospective buyers eager to be the one who sells the most and at the best price what they had just stolen but a few weeks earlier. What a limp wrist! How did it come this pitiful shadow of what a man should be. Had managed to father this unique shield maid? This king who had fainted when he should have fought with Ragnar; this father who should have raised his sword when the Norse king had pulled ahead of him, blade against her throat his only child as a hostage. Charles had fainted; Gisla had not begged for her life. Mute and resolute; her eyes like daggers daring Ragnar to kill her to free her soldiers from his threat and get them to kill this Viking beast. I Were Franks mad to choose as king such coward?

Charlemagne's grandson did not impress him much. Kingship by birth right was wrong. Was king who deserved to be king. Who has the strength, the leadership to be king. Who was worth it; was unworthy he who happened only to be born to the right consort from the right sire! Charles the unworthy… like Erlendur. The same viciousness as his father but not the same charisma, not the same courage.

Why did the beast frown? She looked at him, shuddering even more than but a few instants ago.

You better remove it. Let me help you. You are not yourself. I know I do not look like it but I am quite …

He stopped speaking feeling his cheeks turn crimson.

He was frowning but an instant ago. Now he was blushing while trying to pull her dress out. She was fighting him, trying to keep the fabric on her, to keep her modesty. She knew what he wanted: after defiling her, he would sell her … like a slave. But he was not going to find it easy…

… Ehhh… good thing you do not speak Norse. You need a dress; that's what you need. Where do your maids store them? Your many, many dresses. I hope you realize I am not an emperor! I do not know how much wealth this dukedom of yours will bring me…us. But I know I cannot afford all these rolls of silk! Ah, stop fighting woman! I am not going to rape you. You cannot show yourself with this … Dress! Dress! Arhh …Sin… No, not Sinric! Dress?

She was looking at him like he was a mad man. And a mad man he was. Showing her a square towel and holding it over her shoulders, her breasts, Her legs, repeating frantically the same thing with an air of panic. Why was he not leaving her alone; leaving her to change her soiled night gown to something cleaner? Why was he not leaving the room; did he expect her to undress in front… A dress; he was looking for a dress!

Robe!

Robe?

Now it was her turn to take a cloth and try and put it on his shoulders, arms …

Robe. Dress!

Dress… Robe?

She acknowledged the word. Waved her fingers in the unspoken code of womanhood when they want their male companion to leave the room but he was having none of it.

You need a dress but you need to clean, to wipe more… that is if you want to avoid staining it.

To her horror, he was pulling the crumpled dress up showing her specks on blood on her inner thighs. Sick, she was feeling sick at looking at it. Her hand was shaking at the idea of touching her skin soiled by the traces of the bestial coupling.

Let me help. .. Vous….je … Je … Vous … help?

He dipped the towel in the faintly pink water, proceeding to rub her thighs. Her skin was soft, and her body smelled of perfumes her had heard about like one hears of legends. Sweet, flowery fragrances from a South, from the fabled East Athelstan was described to Ragnar.

There is this very large sea with no tides which bathes the coasts of Italy. Rome with all its martyrs is not far from it. Further East, you find Greece where the old Gods live on Mount Olympus then you meet the new Rome: Constantinople … but this is nothing.

Nothing at all… Then you reach Judea and Jerusalem where Our Lord died and resurrected… but again this is nothing. This is not the end. Ah Ragnar, the world, our Midgard is so immense. Odin, Christ has given us such an amazing gift. So many realms, so many… Ah, and there is the Caliph of Baghdad who sent envoys to Emperor Charlemagne and further East, always East, further away you have more lands. Lands which trade intoxicating perfumes which the women of Paris use shamelessly!

He monk had winked at Ragnar and everybody had laughed. Intoxicating, indeed? Did the women of Frankia bath in mead? Now, he could perceive the faint yet lingering soft smell of mysterious flowers of far off realms. Intoxicating had said Athelstan. Drunk, Rollo was thinking. Drunk with lust and love… and loving it.

In Northumbria, he had mocked Odin along the Gods of the North. Odin was angry with him, wishing him a life a misery but Aelle's God was approving of this new recruit.

The Christian magic could not work on him., he had said. Fool that he was. He was swallowing hook, bait, oars and ship proffered by this new God. So long Odin, he was too busy to feel the ache of leaving his people's faith. Too drunk as he was of the need of a shield maid born in a land which certainly did not approve of maidens with shields.

The cloth was pulled again from his hand, not very gently. If she had to touch it, she and she only would remove the sure signs of Sin.

Shoo!.. Go away. I do not need you here… Leave me alone.

She turned her back, confident he would not stay. Leaving, he certainly was though not this way since his sincere efforts were met with thanklessness… or not. He averted the eyes, watching simply the shadow of her naked body dancing on the walls by the candles light. Only after, did he leave.

Wait, he would. She would not stay much longer in the cubicle and … and she would soon have to call him, call for his help. Because she would need a dress. A dress he would offer leaving her no choice but to thank him. To acknowledge him.

There was no dress in sight; all the candles were ablaze shining on a room devoid of clothes aside his own cloak, shirts and boots. Was there another door, leading to another room he may have missed? Unless… unless the dresses were nicely folded like in Kattegat in huge chests. Chests which must be here in said bedroom. So many chests. Which one was it? Would he suffer the shame to ask her?

No, I do not need your help, I shall find it myself! I do… (Why am I talking like that?)

The man from Kattegat, the sullen, silent man; the husband with a nasty tongue scourging Siggy giving as good as he was taking; Ragnar's brother who could only ask questions and had to listen in humble silence to his sibling's words of wisdom could not stop chattering like a magpie. Was it because she did not understand what he wanted her to know, was it because at long last he felt he had found the one person who would deem interesting to know where his thoughts were taking him? He was like a broken dam. He had to speak, he had to share his thoughts. … And he had to find a dress.

A chest full of dresses… dresses fit for a princess… a pretty chest, a richly decorated chest. A large oak chest with carvings of winged creatures met his eyes. The naked winged children were playing along these birds of the amazing multi-coloured tail while keeping company to a man which he took as her God surrounded by less known deities. Lifting the very heavy lid (way too heavy for one woman to lift? How many servants? Two, three? Did Gisla ever bother to actually look inside her own belongings?), his investigation met with success. Dresses a galore… Rummaging quickly, he took a rather diaphanous sheath of pink and green stripes leaving one arm free.

In Kattegat, women would kill for this. Siggy…. An old friend of mine… she…she died before we went rai…we sailed to Frankia… Siggy would have loved it.

Rollo, you are an idiot. Discuss your late wife with your new wife! Why not tell her you had also a crush on Lagertha or made a pass at Cwenthryth while you are at it…